House of Cards
by Zackary Anderson J
Summary: What if the Batman never ran away after the Dark Knight? What if he made a bet with the Joker instead? What if the stakes were high? What if he lost? What if, deep down, he might have even wanted to lose? Batman/Joker; Non-con in second chapter
1. House of Cards

CHAPTER 1NE: HOUSE OF CARDS

**Disclaimer:: I do not own Batman, or any recognizable characters, artistic inventions, etcetera. Bob Cane drew it, Bill Finger wrote it, DC Comics published it, and Warner Brothers produced it. I am merely a boy with plot bunnies in his mind; all I own is a Batman shirt, Batman boxers, Dark Knight, Batman Forever, Batman and Robin, and bubble gum scented Batman body wash.**

**(::. .Meh. I am indifferent about the ending of this. I feel as though I should work on the ending paragraphs a bit, especially Bruce's introduction I got goin' on. Not really diggin' it. The length could also be improved; to me it just looks as if something was left out... Meh, I dunno…. Perhaps I'll work on that, perhaps I won't; although it's highly likely that I won't work on it. House of Cards belongs to Elton John. Not me. .::)**

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I hear tell some playboy has kidnapped your heart

With his plane and his plans for games after dark.

Just a pain in his pocket, and the price of a room

Where the second hand sheets smell of stale perfume.

If there's sharks in the water, don't swim where it's deep,

For the taste of success can be bitter and sweet.

It could be you're right that I act like a child,

But you'll be the loser when the jokers run wild!

You're just playing the game, but the stakes are too high!

What will you do when the chips start to fly?

When the deck's stacked against you and the living gets hard,

Oh it's four walls of madness in this house of cards!

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For once the owner of the hand actually gave into the purple-clad man's taunting, said man giggled fanatically until he started choking on himself and his vision became blotchy. Grasping onto the forearm of the hand attached to his neck and the fiercely growling man that came with it, he moaned. At least he tried to, that is. What came out was more of a gurgling noise, so instead of vocalizing how he felt he resorted to verbalize it by rolling the hard and slightly moist tent in his pants against his aggressor's firm abdomen. Just as his vision started going dark police sirens were heard round the bend, a block or two away.

Unable to afford getting caught and somehow detained by the Gotham City Police Department, identified, and locked away in Arkham Asylum for the rest of his life, the now disgusted oversized rodent unceremoniously dropped the clown and fled, only after nudging his foot none too gently against the seemingly unconscious man's arm.

What he hadn't noticed as he retreated to the Bat Cave, was the small tick on the under side of his forearm where the clown had grabbed him. Nor did he notice the glued on chip on the back of the tick with the sharpied-over, dull red, blinking light. If he had turned around be would've easily noticed the very conscious man slipping away down the other end of the alley, pulling what looked to be a GPS out of his purple suit jacket. On the top right hand corner of the device was a dull blinking red light.

Just as the Batman reached the Bat Cave just off the property of billionaire typhoon, playboy, industrialist, philanthropist, and owner of Wayne Enterprises, Bruce Wayne himself, the Joker squealed loudly, giggling out in vigor which both frightened and concerned his henchmen in the process.

_He knew it!_


	2. My Obsession

CHAPTER 2WO: MY OBSESSION

**Disclaimer in first chapter. My Obsession belongs to Skillet. Not me.**

**(::. .I enjoyed writing this chapter in my algebra and chemistry classes. I increased my agility skills by rapidly switching to the proper notes for whichever class I was in, purely out of fear of being caught writing violent rape between two men, by my roaming teachers. Of all the people to get caught writing vicious rape by… As if my chemistry teacher doesn't hate me enough as it is….::)**

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You're my only infatuation,  
>Don't leave me stranded<br>In my obsession.  
>My purpose, my possession;<br>Live and die in my obsession.  
>My obsession.<p>

Am I a lunatic?  
>I'm going crazy,<br>For just a word from,  
>For just a touch from you.<p>

And I'm exploding like chemicals,  
>I'm going crazy, can't get enough!<p>

And I'm exploding like chemicals,  
>I'm going crazy, can't get enough!<p>

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Bruce Wayne, in the eyes of the public, was a mildly attractive man. Okay so he was hot, and he was rich. And money made you prettier, a well known fact. It was also a well known fact that having a split personality, sorry—an "alter ego,"—made you far uglier then money could ever make you pretty. Same with some secrets, depending on what they are of course. Bruce Wayne's secret was the oh so minor fact that he was Gotham City's personal Knight in Leather Rat—er, Bat Suit, and the nanosecond he ceased being useful the authorities would lock him up just like the many times they attempted locking the Joker up. From what the Joker knew, only two people knew of his beloved Batsy's secret; the little butler slave… guy and, the Joker licked his lips, him.

The clown felt like the teenage boy he once was when he'd figured out that he could use his cock for something other than taking a piss. And what a great month that had turned out to be! He'd also come to the conclusion that his fingers felt most pleasant when placed elsewhere as well, ahem. He'd stopped altogether however, when his father, in a drunken daze, burst into his room and saw his son with his hand around his dick and three fingers shoved up his ass. That ended well.

Back on topic though, the Joker shook himself out of his thoughts of his unpleasant childhood. Knowing his—_his_ Batsy's dirty little secret made him giddy with excitement, in ways that both tightened his pants and made his henchmen very uneasy and, dare he say, afraid. He giggled maniacally, doing a "come hither" gesture with his pointer finger,

"C'me 'ere Rod,"

The muscular man visibly gulped, timidly coming to stand in front of the purple clad clown seated in what looked to be a thrown. His arms, both now limp, rested on the large chair he was slouching in, hands dangling above his thighs. Legs spread, with an intimidating leer in his eyes that was accompanied by the evil little smirk that plastered his face, bringing up only one scarred cheek more then the other.

"S—sir?"

Mockingly, in an almost teasing or playful way, the Joker paused with his lips pursed as he pretended to take a few seconds to think about what he wanted the puppet to do next. Making another "come hither" motion followed by him pointing downwards once, twice, and leaned forward. Rod shook and dropped to his knees, slowly leaning forward so that they were staring behind the other; Rod staring down the back of the oversized chair, the Joker staring through his lip-biting henchmen, cheek to scarred cheek.

"Bend over."

Turning about face and falling with two slaps as his hands met solid concrete, Rod clenched his eyes shut. He should've listened to his mother and gone to law school… The temperature and Rod's shaking seemed to freeze at the feel of said man's boss's bumped hips against his ass and a chilled blade against the back of his neck. The knife, almost gently brought down, caught his shirt and slowly tore through it until it flapped open and slid down to his hands.

"Take it off," the whispered voice was accompanied by a rough hand caressing his abdomen. Rod painstakingly slid each hand out of the ruined shirt, barely taking his hands off the floor in fear of triggering his boss's horrifically unpredictable temper. The hips were now rocking lazily, hand sliding down and unbuttoning his pants. The hips moved away and his pants were cut from the top of his ass down his left sleeve. The Joker cut his other pant leg open. He tore the article of clothing away from the body underneath him who nearly fell from the force of them being yanked out from under his knees.

The clatter of the knife falling and hitting the floor, moving about until it settled, was followed by calloused hands sliding up Rod's thighs. Up and down, up and down, they repeated the rubbing motions several times until they slid up the boxer-shorts and grabbed two handfuls of ass. The squeezes terrified Rod. Why was he being so… not harmful? Even one of the hands that was removed to push his head to the floor was almost gentle. The other hand was taken away and the rocking of hips returned in their place.

"Take 'em off," he whispered,

"Take 'em off!"

He sounded needy, desperate even. As the other flunkies stared in horror at both Rod and their deranged psychopathic employer, Rod removed his boxers and sobbed at the whimper let out by the Joker. It sounded so full of pure, unadulterated _want._

_"MABBIT!"_ the clown roared, picking up the knife and continuing to rock his hips against Rod's now bared ass. The beckoned henchman made his way through the disturbed crowd in fear of the man. When he reached the pair he stood awkwardly, avoiding eye-contact—avoiding looking at them at all.

"Shirt," the grease-painted man grunted. Hastily pulling it off, he nearly bit off his tongue to hold back the scream as the Joker's knife gashed his lower abdomen by about two inches. Try as he may, the scream was let out as two of the Jokers fingers plunged themselves to the second knuckle as the knife clitter-clattered to the floor in between them. The fingers twisted and turned, stretching and pulling at the mangled flesh before a third entered the now heavily bleeding hole. His other hand ceased stroking, petting, and squeezing Rod's rear in favor of undoing his pants and bringing his leaking member out.

Mabbit was praying he would pass out—preferably sooner rather than later. It wasn't his lucky day however, and the Joker took his fingers out to slowly begin stretching Rod's hole out. With the Joker's free hand, he slammed it onto the open wound. Blood spilled out more freely, coating the clown's hand quickly as he still took his time preparing Rod, who had been whimpering this whole time. He felt the splatter of drops of blood hitting his back. He saw it when his eyes flashed open momentarily as the Joker's patient fingers took their time and occasionally brushed his prostate. He was morbidly ashamed with himself as those fingers stumbling upon his prostate began to harden his own member. As he heard the slap of the Joker's hand against the red and wet skin of Mabbit, those disgusting fingers chose that moment to put a great amount of pressure on his prostate. He moaned. Loudly. And he sobbed even louder as he heard himself do it. The Joker disgusted him. Hell, he disgusted himself.

Mabbit took note of the disgrace on Rod's face and, hoping it would get them out of the situation they were in, he foolishly opened his mouth,

"I—guh… I'm not ngh—c—clean!"

The Joker froze completely, sans the three fingers still gradually working Rod open. An ugly snarl pulled his lips back, revealing slightly yellowing teeth.

"Oh yeah? So ya norm'lly jus' fuck ol' Roddy h're with a condom? That' wha' yer sayin'? Cuz on tha surveillance feed ya nev'r seem ta be puttin' one on. Wanna revise tha' s'ntence, Mabbit?"

"I—I'm cle—gah! Cle—_CLEAN_ sir!" Mabbit whimpered out close to sobbing.

Harshly slapping the wound again and watching the puppet collapse with a yell, the Joker spread the blood over his cock. As he entered he took his time and released a broken moan. He pumped his hips, little by little picking up his pace and buried his face into Rod's neck. Nibbling and sucking his neck, the Joker ignored Mabbit as he crawled away and was helped off to a hospital presumably.

The Joker eventually sobbed his release into Rod's neck. As traumatized as Rod felt; laying there on the cold solid ground, his lover's blood and his boss's semen leaking from his entrance, down his legs and onto the floor, drying like the tears streaming down his face; he didn't feel nearly as bad for himself as he did for whoever the hell _Bruce_ was.

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The next day was August 23, 2010. Rodney Precid was found on the ledge of an apartment complex roof with a fully loaded and cocked gun pressed to his temple. Tears were streaming from his empty eyes like his lovers' blood had flowed from his stomach. He'd been placed in a shortly-lived medical coma, but had died shortly after. Being both traumatized by the raping he'd gone through last night and losing the love of his life, Rodney was going to end his own. James Gordon and his squad were standing at the roof's opened door not 13 feet away from the trembling man.

"Please step away from the ledge and put the gun on the ground!" Gordon spoke slowly, wanting to ease the man's nerves.

"No! I have to do this—I need to!"

"For what reason?"

"The Joker!" Gordon was shocked into silence briefly, the question on his tongue falling out before he could stop it. The man's answer was cried out and barely legible between the gasped out sobs,

"He… rape" hiccup "not…" sob "Bruce—he…" the man was reduced to a bumbling mess once more.

"Bruce?" Gordon questioned,

"Bruce Wayne?"

The sob turned into a snort,

"Bruce Wayne is weak. If the Joker wanted him he'd have him already! I don't know who! He never told us anything, just ordered us around! He—"

"You worked for him? Sir, where is his hideout? We can find him and punish him for what he did to you, we can help you if you help us! Together we could make Gotham a safer, better place for every—"

He was cut off by a broken chuckle that was sounding as if it were bordering on becoming a cackle.

"It's your professionalism…" he paused, the pain, anger, and sorrow leaving his eyes. He looked how he felt and sounded; empty. Broken.

"Sir?" Gordon's confusion got in the way of said mentioned professionalism. The man pressed the gun's barrel to his lips and brought himself to turn around and look at the commissioner.

"It's your professionalism," he repeated, "that I admire."

The moment the last syllable left his lungs was the moment the bullet left the gun. With a hole puncturing his nape Rodney Precid, had he not been dead already, would have fell to his death judging by the splatter he'd left on the ground below.

The Gotham City Police Department spent the rest of the morning cleaning up the mess and half of the evening trying to determine just how many citizens in Gotham had the name Bruce. They knew it was common. There was Bruce Dorl, Bruce Monun, Bruce Steen, Marvin Bruse, Alicia Bruse, and probably much more with either the first or last name Bruce, spelling varied. Bruce Wayne could be counted out, but that barely made anything any easier. All they had was a name, _a_ name; no face, no last (perhaps first) name, and most importantly and crucially—no motive.


	3. Addiction and Her Name

CHAPTER 3HREE: ADDICTION AND [HIS] NAME

**Disclaimer in first chapter. Addiction and Her Name belongs to There for Tomorrow. Not me.**

**( lovely creatures get a long chapter! Aren't you proud of me? ^.^.::)**

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You try to move on but still you're perfecting failure  
>There's always something in your way<p>

Was it the guilt in you that pushed me to improve?  
>I know you've always had the choice to hear<br>You gave it all up when you broke the thought  
>Of keeping away the things you bought<br>When you took common sense so serious

This time around you're coming closer  
>You're never coming back until you know it's over<br>Won't you take it away from me?  
>Just take it all<br>Cause you never know you're leaving until it's over

And it's not that it's too hard to try to turn your eyes and drive the pain away  
>It's how much easier it is to let it stay<br>Once again it's on the tip my tongue  
>"Don't you wish it was done?"<br>I'm afraid we're only at the start  
>You knew that this is how things are<p>

There's always something in your way…

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Bruce Wayne needed a girlfriend—or, rather a boyfriend given his little known preference. His hand, as much as he appreciated all it's done for him, simply wasn't cutting it for him anymore! Really though, Bruce didn't want some scrawny push-over who was determined to be outed with him and be all touchy-feely 24/7 and woke him up with blowjobs every morning. Well… he wouldn't mind having his mornings start out like that, but he wanted someone loyal. He wanted someone uncaring of his status—of who he was. Someone that got his blood pumping and told him what was on their mind regardless of Bruce's feelings as long as it was the _truth._ He… pretty much described a dog, if hey could talk anyway. Bruce sighed, maybe he should just do what everyone else did and screw his secretary. Well, it could've been worse… he could've described the ever so irritating Joker…

At the same moment in time, both the Joker's and Bruce's brows furrowed as they anxiously bit their lower lip. Something bad, in Bruce's case anyway, was definitely about to happen. When it chose a moment to happen though, Bruce never would've expected it—not the time and especially not the place.

That night Bruce found himself clad in leather, on a wild goose-hunt for the Joker. Having finally caught up with the slippery clown, he growled something out at him to which the Joker's response was a witty,

"Ya wanna cough drop?" Actually producing a cough drop and offering it to him. Bruce sneered to hide his surprise and amusement.

"No, where's the bomb Joker?" The Joker shrugged, unwrapping the red oval of hard candy and popping it in his mouth,

"There ain't one,"

"Then why the bomb threat?" he growled out, fists clenching. The joker shrugged once more, pseudo-shyly glancing up through his lashes and swaying pseudo-innocently from side to side. He whispered, sounding incredibly sincere,

"I missed ya…"

"Stop fooling around—"

"'m not!" the clown yelled stubbornly, childishly crossing his arms and pouted, "There ain't no bomb an' I did miss ya! Ya nev'r have time fer me no more. I felt a lil'… replaced." The bat snarled and ignored the man's puppy dog eyes and pouting, quivering lower lip.

"Trust me, no one could _ever_ replace _you._" Even though it was sneered out in malice the Joker felt his heart soar.

He felt like he never had time for him? He's a criminal! Why would Bruce make it a habit to attempt to spend time with the bane of his existence? Yet there he was; on a random buildings roof arguing with the Joker, of all people, about why he doesn't _spend time with him_. The clown was resilient, nearly begging to sit—just sit—with him for a while. He even swore he would leave the city alone for a week. Bruce had asked how he could be sure he wouldn't do anything to him whist on the roof, knowing he was a man of his word. Excited about sitting with his Batsy, he'd almost eagerly suggested that the bat could hold them together to keep him from trying anything. Bruce sighed warily,

"A week?"

"Scouts honor!" the Joker nodded exuberantly, despite the fact that he'd never been a Boy Scout, and ran to the fence bordering the roof's edges. He frantically pat the ground to the right of him. Reluctantly stalking over to what reminded him of an overgrown child, Bruce sat down and had his hand immediately snatched between to pale white ones. As the Joker, frighteningly, snuggled up to the Bat, all Bruce could do was think about how much he hated his life.

"Jack,"

"Hn?"

"'t's my name!"

"Why do I care?" The hate was oozing out with each word. Bruce had long since stopped trying to find the Joker's identity—he'd obviously hacked into something and deleted all of his files. The Joker shrugged,

"Wha's yers?" The Batman snorted and silently prayed for the return of his hand,

"Nice try." The Joker hummed a tune and leaned his head onto the other man's shoulder. The Batman leaned away, causing the green haired man to topple over onto his lap.

"I c'n see up yer nose," he whispered as if it were some sort of secret before giggling loudly. The Bat was not amused and made no motions to acknowledge the clown. Still smiling, the clown released the bat's hand in order to fiddle around the area of the leather suit where Bruce's collar bone would be.

"I'll make a bet with ya,"

Still no acknowledgement.

"If I loose~… I'll leave tha city. Ferevah,"

That certainly got his attention. The Joker almost felt loved.

"What?" the bat gruffed out.

"If I win though ya gotta gimme me one thin'. Jus' one, tha's all I wan'."

"_What,_ Joker?" Oooh, angry Batsy! The clock struck 12 as their eyes met,

"If I c'n guess yer name by say, sex—oops! _Six_, th'n I win. If not, ya win!" In Bruce Wayne's narrow mind, there was no possible way for him to get even an inkling of who he was. Unless he weaseled his way through somehow,

"No use of your men, no distractions till then. You leave Gotham alone while you try to figure it out."

"How 'm I s'posed ta figer it out th'n?"

"Use your head!" He pouted and jumped up before crouching in front of the cross-legged bat,

"Kill joy. Fine. Shake on it an' gimme yer w'rd!" Bruce shook the outstretched hand and growled nose-to-nose,

"Deal." The Joker smashed their lips together in a bruising kiss, tongue sliding into Bruce's mouth in his moment of being caught off guard. The bat shoved him away in disgust at the feel of the grease-painted man's tongue wrapping around his own. He spat and stood up,

"Freak! Six o' clock! You're late and you lose!" The man that lay sprawled on the floor only cackled manically before yelling to the moon,

"In tha bag, Batsy! In tha bag!"

Half an hour later, Bruce Wayne was mumbling into a glass of wine, appalled at how easily he'd agreed to the Joker's bet. He hadn't even made any limits to what the clown could ask of him if he somehow managed to win! Bruce punched the wall adjacent to his office's chair,

"Damnit!" he knew there was no way for him to lose but he shouldn't have made making the bet so damn easy! Why his name of all things anyway? Bruce understood that he could make his life hell just from knowing it, but what was the point of giving his own name? Jack… Bruce chuckled, if it was status he was after then the Joker certainly was a greater card than the Jack was, especially if the stakes were high and the Jokers were wild. Taking a sip of his overpriced alcoholic beverage, Bruce pondered on the fact that if life were a card game then the stakes definitely couldn't get any higher and the Joker most certainly couldn't get any wilder.

He shook his head, he really need to stop thinking in examples. The wine made him to that far too much, just like it made him sleep in and sleep like the dead. Not wanting to bother Alfred, Bruce washed his glass and put the bottle back in the wine cellar. Briefly stopping in his father figure's room before heading to his own for a well needed rest, be wished Alfred a goodnight to which the butler replied,

"And a good night to you as well, Master Bruce," with a warm smile.

"If only," the fates cackled.


	4. This is Who We Are

CHAPTER 4OUR: THIS IS WHO WE ARE

**Disclaimer in first chapter. This Is Who We Are belongs to Hawthorne Heights. Not me.**

**( compensation for that fabulously long chapter, I'm afraid I'm going to have to make this one a shorter chapter then that one had been though. Me sawwy! ^.^' But… on the bright side, you get some smut out of this!.::)**

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Between the future and the past tense  
>Lies the present and the distance<br>So you think we're never coming back  
>Scoring points for passion and persistence<p>

Between the lines and the highway  
>Lies the danger and the safety<br>You never thought this was gonna last  
>I always knew you'd never take it back<p>

I always knew (I always knew)

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Hands and lips were trailing—sliding, _gliding_ up Bruce's chest and down his neck. Hips gently rocking his own, just barely to the point that made him arch into those hips for more of that delicious friction. _Tease_ is what ran through his lust filled head as the man swiveled his hips away, denying him that pressure he so wanted. He moaned as their lips were brought together in a chaste, teasingly slow peck of a kiss. God, how he wanted more!

Bruce felt drugged; way too relaxed to be with a man who knew what he was doing so well. He felt too relaxed to move his arms or open his eyes as he took in the view of his lively lover as he took a hold of that lithe body, encased his thick arms around him as he flipped him over and pounded into him so hard, so good.

When the man finally gave in and allowed Bruce that much wanted friction, his hands came alive at a snail's pace, one slowly crawling to his hip and the other to his ass. Giving it a series of squeezes, Bruce decided that it was perfect. Not too round, not too pliant nor firm. It was the fight size to fit perfectly in his hands.

The tell-tale grogginess of a wet-dream was slowly, yet rapidly, fading away. Hands and lips were on his body. His hands were on a strangers hip and ass and his cock was full of blood. What the almost actual fuck..? He tore his hands away from the body on top of him and went to shove the stranger's hands away as well. As Bruce pushed, the hands pressed closer to the firm torso and sat up, his body weight resting on Bruce's straining erection. Giggles filled the room as the millionaire opened his eyes, vision quickly coming into focus. Aware of his surroundings, Bruce knew not to let his batman persona come out or lower his voice to his Batman Gruff. He let his eyes widen drastically, actually kind of fearing that the Joker had figured him out.

"Y—you're the—wha—what do you want? Money? I—" The Joker, who'd donned his purple suit jacket sometime before molesting the poor man, threw his head back and cackled.

"Ya don' think 'm dumb do ya? Cuz yer actin' like ya do! I don' want yer money, what I _do_ want, howe'er," he leaned forward to whisper into Bruce's ear, laying his body flat against the other,

"is fer ya ta give up tha façade, Batsy," Within an instant he was flat on his back with his head hanging off the edge of the bed with a hand around his throat. Angry Brucey! He was snarling,

"How?

"Kinda obvious," the clown smirked. "All tha' needed money fer yer nifty lil' toys an' gadgets. Ya were both _close_ ta Miss Rachel Dawes an' _detested_ that pesky Harvey Dent. An' tha lil' party ya had, who was tha _only _person lil' ol' me di'n't see there?" He lifted his hand and tapped Bruce on the nose,

"Ping! Bruce Wayne! Ya got tha same lips," he ran his thumb over the man's moist lower lip, "an' yer lil' _layer_ is jus' off yer property."

Minus the lip comment it all seemed legit. Bruce sat back in shock, a dazed look crossing his face,

"I don't… the… the layer. How—"

"Tha titanium steel kinda gave it away. _Bruce_." A shiver, like a thousand spiders, crawled up and down Bruce's back and neck. His eyes widened, mouth slightly opening. He blinked and swallowed. He locked eyes with the Joker. He lost.

A tremor that resembled a hair-raising chill ran to and fro the Joker's body. His lips parted in a giddy smile, lips dry despite him running his tongue across them in an arch. His eyes widened with an ecstatic gleam. He blinked twice as Bruce locked eyes with him. He won.


End file.
